


Play

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 21:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12968643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Arwen and Aragorn can finally sneak off together.





	Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avocado_bros_4thewin (mkblitz)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mkblitz/gifts).



> Gift for mrpineapple42, who donated to charity for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “nervous(possibly virgin)!Aragorn/Arwen first time. Arwen has to show him the ropes, so to speak”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Aragorn’s palm is large and warm in hers, long fingers clinging tightly to her slender digits. She guides him by it, pausing here and there to check over their shoulders, but they both know how to keep their footsteps light. When they finally reach their destination, Arwen slips them both inside, quick to shut the door behind them. Then she lets out a sigh of relief: they’ve made it.

They’re _alone_ , after the almost suffocating splendor of the banquet that celebrated her permanent return. She’s come and gone a few times, each repeat for one specific purpose. Aragorn glances at the sealed door. He murmurs low, “I should not be here...”

“They will never know,” she promises—he’ll slip out come morning, back into his own rooms before anyone’s any the wiser. Aragorn wrinkles his nose as though to say that’s not the point. She just laughs at his expression, light and clear. In a way, she’s pleased he’s so respectful and thinks of her father’s wishes. But in another way: “Besides, we are both grown, and we deserve a moment to ourselves.” She wants to experience him properly in a way she couldn’t at the dinner table, where they sat beside one another with their hands clasped upon his thigh. She closes what little distance lies between them, and she brushes her lips over his.

His stubble tickles. It’s only grown lightly, sparse, and maybe she’ll shave it off in the morning, although she thinks she might learn to like its burn. There’s a certain ruggedness to him that no elf has, and she enjoys that in him—enjoys all the things that make him _unique_ to her. His eyes flicker closed, mouth opening to return her gentle touch. They share a sweet kiss, and then she parts them only enough to whisper, “Do you truly wish to return to your own quarters?”

His gaze rests on her lips. She smiles at him, because he always stirs that in her, one way or another. Then he shakes his head, and his hand lifts to her hair, tangling in the dark curls as he kisses her again.

For the first time, they enjoy each other unencumbered, sharing one languid kiss after the other without fear of interruption. Her grand bedroom, untouched by all the time she’s spent away, is dark save for the starlight that filters in over the balcony. Tall windows glimpse the moon, gossamer curtains stirring in the evening breeze. She guides him across the cold floor as they embrace, until her knees have bumped against the bed.

Then she pulls back to climb onto the mattress, and though he gives it a wary look, he comes with her. He chases her mouth like he can’t bear to have it far away, and she celebrates each adoring peck he gives her. When they’re both settled up against the headboard, seated in plush pillows, Arwen lets her hands explore. He’s grown since the last time she saw him, filled out more, reached the height he’ll now keep for many years—he’s truly a _man_ , no longer just a boy. Sometime she feels old compared to him, though she’s young in her people’s reckoning, but other times, he makes her feel new. She explores his form with searching hands, tracing each hardened muscle. 

She reaches the collar of his tunic and loosens the threads about the cutout ‘v’. He hesitates, drawing in a breath, and then she pulls back enough to pull the tunic right over his head. When it’s gone, she searches his eyes. They seem to shine at her. She tosses the tunic away, and he pulls her back against him, all ten fingers now diving into her hair. 

For a long moment, Arwen admires his chest, unable to see it but at least able to _feel_. He’s chiseled like the warriors of old, but still trim and fit, shorter than her brothers, but not by much. His hair is far shorter, though still longer than most mortals wear it, and she likes the way the ragged strands brush against her cheeks. She likes the scratch of his stubble, the hard cut of his jaw. Her fingers dance along his abdomen, and then she finds his wrists and guides them to her body. Between their kisses, she reminds him, “You may touch me too.”

He nods like obeying a princess, though he’s her father’s ward, and their status is the same—if not his higher for his birth-family’s title. Sometimes, he does seem lordly to her—a true heir, a king born of the legends—and others, he’s only a kind wanderer that she might find down in the stables. Aragorn is all sides, and she loves every one. She catches his bottom lip between her teeth as he tentatively grips her waist, slowly rising up to cup her breasts. She kisses him harder for it, and he squeezes her in return, earning a throaty moan that she pours into his mouth.

That’s enough again, just _touching_ one another, rubbing and kneading and beginning to undulate, her hips slowly rocking into his. His pulse seems to race against her skin, and her breath quickens too, the heat between them becoming almost unbearable. Then she drops her hands to toy with the ties of his trousers, and he groans low against her. 

When they’re undone enough, Arwen slips her hand inside. She bypasses all the fabric to cup his crotch—he makes a feral noise and bucks into her palm. The thick shaft seems to stiffen exponentially, but that’s as Arwen suspected, even if she’s never felt it before. She doubts that he has either—another person’s hand holding him, that is. She wraps her fingers around it and experimentally strokes forward; he shivers and moans. 

Slowly and luxurious, Arwen strokes her boyfriend’s cock, though he mutters, “This is... ah... hardly proper...”

“We will be married someday,” she tells him, because she’s sure of it, and he nods in quick acquiescence. “But I will stop, if you wish...”

“I do not want you to stop,” Aragorn insists, and his voice is rough now, wild and free. “I only wish to respect you as you deserve, but I have not the strength to turn such gifts away...”

“Then enjoy them,” Arwen purrs, because: “you have always respected me, and I you.” He surges suddenly into a kiss, a ravishing one that Arwen’s quickly lost in, though her hand continues. 

It isn’t long before he’s shuddering in her grasp, groaning loud against her lips, and spilling in her hand. She pumps him through it, unsure of what else to do, until he’s slumped against her and breathing hard. When she pulls her hand out, she wipes it on his thigh, crude though it is. It only takes a few seconds before he asks, “How may I return the favour?”

Smiling, she answers with something she’s long thought of: “You might try your mouth.” He tilts his head, uncomprehending. She spreads her legs and begins to hike up the thin blue dress she’s spent the night in, his eyes instantly darting to the movement. 

Then he seems to understand, and he ducks low, just like she knew he would. As she settles back against her headboard, looking lovingly down at the Man who holds her heart, Arwen knows their marriage is _definitely_ to come.


End file.
